A Little Extra
by TheGirlWithTheFictionAddiction
Summary: As part of my English assignment I had to write an additional chapter for Regeneration and I thought I would share it with you.


Rivers was studying Sassoon's poems when a tentative knock on the door announced a visitor. He looked at his watch and noted that he wasn't due for rounds for another half hour, "Come in!" The door opened to reveal a breach in the light from the hallway.

"A-are you b-busy?" Owen stepped into the glow of Rivers desk lamp. Rivers pushed aside the papers and gestured to the seat opposite his desk. Owen sat across from him and glanced nervously around his office. Rivers liked Owen. He was a tortured youth, soaked in the memories of war, but he was kind and sweet, shy even. Yet when he spoke about poetry and the Hydra, boy did he have a voice. It was the only time Rivers had seen him look like the officer he was. Rivers took this moment of silence as an opportunity to analyse Wilfred Owen. He looked agitated, excited even but subdued, restrained. "I-I like your P-Pict-ture." Owen pointed to a framed painting on the wall.

Rivers smiled, "Ah yes, it was given to me by one of my patients two years ago. He was diagnosed with neurasthenia, just like you." Rivers stood and walked over to the painting, "Before the war, he was studying at the Burslem School of Art in Stoke-on-Trent." He looked over his shoulder at Owen who was anxiously twiddling his thumbs, "Do you know the school?"

"No. I-I w-went to R-Read-ding, S-Sir," Owen looked down at his shaking hands and sighed deeply, exhaling despair and anger.

Rivers watched him for a moment before continuing, "Well, nevertheless, this young lad, just like you and your illness, had a stutter. Actually, I think it might have been worse than yours." Owen looked up curiously, "Sometimes he got so nervous his stutter would make him completely incomprehensible. He had to carry a chalkboard around in case people couldn't understand him, just like our friend, Mr. Prior"

Owen looked pitiful, "Th-that's d-dreadf-ful!" Rivers nodded in agreement.

"After a while he gave up trying to speak." Rivers looked at his patient, "He decided to paint instead." Owen stared back at Rivers, looked at the painting, and again to his doctor. Realisation dawned in his fawn-like eyes.

"But I c-can t–talk! P-people d-d-do underst-stand me! I-I..." he trailed off and concentrated, his brow furrowing together to form one joint eyebrow. Slowly, he began to speak, "I...Can't...Write...Poetry. Not...Anyth-thing...Good...Anyway." He looked up sadly at Rivers, begging him to drop the subject with his eyes. Rivers smiled to himself. He'd had this conversation before.

"Owen. You have a gift, even if you don't believe it yourself. My ex-patient didn't believe in himself either, and yet he painted what he felt, what he thought, and not only did he have talent, but he cured himself." Owen tried and failed to keep his face clear of curiosity.

"W-what do y-you mean?"

"He painted his inner turmoil and deepest memories; he admitted they were there. Slowly, he began to recover. It wasn't easy, I'll tell you that. Once you've suppressed something, it can be hard to face it again. But I believe you could do it." Rivers reached into his desk drawer and swapped the scattered poems from Sassoon with the dusty scrap of paper near the bottom. "Do you remember this?" Rivers pushed the page across his desk. It was crumpled and creased but still readable. Rivers began to recite from memory,

"War broke: and now the Winter of the world  
With perishing great darkness closes in.  
The foul tornado, centred at Berlin,  
Is over all the width of Europe whirled,  
Rending the sails of progress. Rent or furled  
Are all Art's ensigns. Verse wails. Now begin  
Famines of thought and feeling. Love's wine's thin.  
The grain of human Autumn rots, down-hurled.

For after Spring had bloomed in early Greece,  
And Summer blazed her glory out with Rome,  
An Autumn softly fell, a harvest home,  
A slow grand age, and rich with all increase.  
But now, for us, wild Winter, and the need  
Of sowings for new Spring, and blood for seed."

Owen sat in silence, a mixture of conflicting emotions fighting for priority, "T-that's my p-poem?" Rivers nodded. "B-but I threw it in the bin!"

"And I got it out again." Rivers spoke as a matter of fact. "Just promise me you'll consider writing, and not just snippets for the Hydra. Write about you, about the war, about anything! Just write!" Rivers handed Owen the poem, who held it gently in his hand as if it were a new born baby.

"Now, speaking of poetry, I'm guessing your visit wasn't just to compliment my painting and have an argument." Rivers sat and smiled, "I take it you saw the arrival of Craiglockhart's newest inhabitant?" Owens face went from a morbid expression to a sheepish smile and rose red cheeks.

"I w-watched him w-walk up the s-steps." He admitted guiltily. Rivers nodded. Owen began again, "I just w-wanted to see if he looked l-like his picture. I really d-do admire his w-work."

Rivers chuckled, "I'm sure Mr. Hodkins at the bookshop in town agrees with you. How many copies was it? Four?"

"Five." Owen corrected, his cheeks blushing a brighter shade still, "They are for my family."

Rivers guffawed, "And how I would love to watch Mrs. Owen read Sassoon's book!" Owen smiled, instantly transforming him from an unconfident boy to a joyful man. Rivers was amazed at how soon it dispersed.

"Do you think he w-would sign them for me?" he asked nervously.

Rivers thought back to the conversation he'd had with the officer when he had first arrived, "He seemed quite sociable to me. Maybe you should just ask him?" Rivers suggested.

Owen considered it for a moment, "I was going to ask him to w-write for the Hydra. Maybe I could ask him then?" Rivers tried to reply but was interrupted by an honest outburst, "I'm afraid he won't take me seriously, bec-cause of my stutter." He looked away from Rivers in embarrassment. Rivers was shocked for a moment, not because of the content of Owen's confession, but because he rarely had completely open and honest admissions in his line of work.

"Owen, you should not be ashamed of your condition. Remember that Siegfried Sassoon is here for a reason, too." Owen snorted.

"Only lunatics, like me, should be locked up here."

"This is _not_ a lunatic asylum. You are _not_ locked up!" Rivers ran his hand through his thinning hair, "Maybe that should be our new advertisement. I had to say the exact same thing to Sassoon."

"But he's not crazy. He is only here because the g-government doesn't want to have to kill a national hero and face the public outcry that will follow."

"Maybe so, but I cannot dismiss any possibilities that he might be more affected by the war than he thinks; he is Mad Jack, after all." Owen shook his head, as if he refused to believe his hero could be damaged in any way.

In response, he turned the conversation, "Do you t-think my stutter will get better if I write again?"

Rivers nodded, "Have you not realised that your stutter is better when you speak of poetry?" Owen sat stunned. His face slowly broke out in a grin; a flush of pleasure. He leapt up in from the chair and grasped Rivers hand. He shook it with such vigour; Rivers had to pull away before he shattered his wrist bone.

"Thank you! I will write I p-promise!" he emanated excitement and glee. He saluted, standing straighter than he had since he'd stepped through the doors of Craiglockhart. He left Rivers office, leaving him alone in the dim light of his desk lamp. He looked at the clock and rose to leave for his rounds. As he stood outside of his first patient's room, he couldn't help but realise he'd lied to Owen. It wasn't talking about poetry that had helped his stutter; it was Sassoon.

Rivers glanced up at the sound of knocking on his door. Sassoon stood holding a scrap of paper in his hands. Rivers looked at his clock on the mantel. "3 O'clock in the morning is a bit early for our meeting at 5 in the evening, isn't it?" Sassoon chuckled to himself quietly as he slid into the chair opposing Rivers' desk.

"I have something for you. Another of my poems. I hope you like it." He pushed the paper across to Rivers. He leaned back and waited. Rivers watched him carefully for a minute, then picked up the poem and began reading aloud.

"'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,  
And folded up the letter that she'd read.  
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke  
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.  
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud  
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.  
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies  
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.  
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes  
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,  
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,  
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine  
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried  
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,  
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care  
Except that lonely woman with white hair."

The two men sat in silence, Sassoon watching the window, Rivers reading the poem carefully over and over. "His name wasn't Jack." Rivers looked up over his horn rimmed glasses.

"Excuse me?"

"His name wasn't Jack." Sassoon repeated. Rivers considered how to approach this statement. He decided on directly.

"What was his name, then?"

Sassoon looked at Rivers and paused before answering, "His name was Ehrlichmann. Klaus Ehrlichmann." Rivers sat back in surprise.

"A German?" Sassoon nodded. Rivers took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I do hope you understand that this sounds to me like German sympathising..." Sassoon nodded, "...and makes you look like a pacifist?" Sassoon nodded again. "Then why are you showing me this?"

He chuckled quietly, "Graves always said I was making a martyr of myself," Sassoon sobered and took a deep breath, "In answer to your question, because it's truth. You asked to see my poetry so here it is. If I had used his real name and made it clear the words were about a German boy then I would have been locked up the second anyone found it." He looked away from Rivers and back to the window where the moon shone through cloudy skies, "He was my first kill." Suddenly, Rivers understood why Sassoon was sitting in his office at 3 in the morning.

"You've been dreaming about it, haven't you?" Sassoon nodded, and as he turned his head, Rivers saw tears on Siegfried's cheek, illuminated by the dull moon light.

"He was just a boy, no more than 17 at the most. I was on duty in one of the trenches that night. He had managed to escape the German trench and was trying to run from the war. Something we all wanted to do. I heard a noise and went to investigate."

Rivers interrupted, holding up a notebook and pencil, "Do you mind?" Sassoon shook his head and continued his story as Rivers began to write.

"I went to investigate and saw him huddled up against the wall of an unused part of the trench. He panicked and jumped up, trying to work his gun. He dropped it and went to pull something out from the inside of his uniform." Sassoon looked helplessly at Rivers, "I thought he had another weapon, inside his jacket. So I..."

"You shot him." Sassoon nodded meekly.

"I shot him. Not well enough to kill him immediately, just enough to let him bleed to death. He was as shocked as I was." Sassoon gave small, sad laugh, "He wasn't expecting me, nor me, him. He fell down and stayed down. He didn't even reach for his gun. He just lay there, in the mud and bleeding. He looked at me and finished retrieving the item from his pocket." Sassoon looked at Rivers to make sure he heard this next bit. "It was a white flag." Rivers paused in his scribing and watched Sassoon carefully.

"Are you sure?" Sassoon nodded.

"It wasn't really a flag, just a simple white handkerchief. But the intention was clear. I even asked. 'Sie aufgeben?' He just nodded and shook his pretend flag again. I tried to save him. If he was surrendering he shouldn't die, should he?" Rivers shook his head. "But my effort was wasted. Nobody could have fixed his wounds in time." He stopped.

"What happened next?" Rivers urged.

"I just held him. If I was going to die, I would want someone to stay with me, wouldn't you?" Rivers nodded. "He said something to me before he died. A heavy German accent but perfect English. I think he had been practising those two words for a while. It was as if he knew it was going to happen, that he was going to die." He didn't continue speaking.

Rivers put down his pen, beginning to understand why Sassoon was here, rather than back in the war, "What did he say?" Sassoon looked him in the eyes and held his gaze.

"Thank you."


End file.
